PURE FRANCIS

Funerary Steles

by Susanna Lang

Where you are, it is difficult to bring you gifts.
       And even if our gifts could reach you
we are not sure what to offer.  Someone has carved

three ducks in stone, and the hand that holds them.
       Someone designed a stamp
featuring Bette Davis; and now a little girl

waits with her mother at the post office, running her fingers
       over the painted curls, so much smoother
than her own.  Someone remembers the sinuous line

of neck to torso, on a body he loved to touch—
       now standing without legs
or arms against the white wall of an empty room.

For myself, I have emptied these French beans
       into the sink.  They were picked young
when they were still slender and sweet, sweet

as the beans you grew in your garden, their flesh
       resistant as I snap the ends.

Susanna Lang is addicted to reading Le Monde online.

Elligible Entry

by Ben Nardolilli

His home foreclosed in youth,
His education cut in pieces by his parents’ death,
He has wandered and seen his share
            Of orphanages and foster homes,
Fed after the family dogs, turnips
            To buttress his days.
His nights are spent without friends, in prayer,
            And still being a virgin,
The monastery seems a perfect choice,
But there is nothing for him to give up,
            And with lesions already on him,
He will gain no relief from the burden of stigmata.
Who will give him holy orders to enter,
If he has easy reason to believe heaven will be better
And the earth is nothing but fleeting pain?
            The solution is in his socks,
Walking with pebbles and burdock seeds
Eternally stuffed inside his shoes,
            A slight flagellation whenever he travels.

Ben Nardolilli keeps the barricades oiled and well fed here.

An Argument / A Husband / A Sound / A Wife / A Neighbor

by Charles Lennox

An argument. An argument by grandfather’s armoire. A husband exiting the dining room and then returning half a minute later. A sound like picture frame glass cracking under a boot heel, once and then twice. A wife of six years standing in the doorframe. Behind her see the window and out that window see a neighbor edging his front lawn. An argument escalating in volume and velocity. A husband baring teeth chiseled square. A wife grabbing her emergency suitcase and walking out the front door, the argument taken to the street. A husband bringing up that time in Bakersfield. A neighbor down in a squat, counting the cut blades of grass. A sound of a commercial plane overhead. A wife wishing she could transform into a balloon and fly away and never have to land or refuel. A husband mouthing off like some unknown beast, on hands and knees, foaming white mad. Ready to pounce and bite at the throat and thrash his head side to side. A neighbor dialing the number to Animal Control. A sound of dead leaves scraping across the driveway, a sound of wind chimes colliding. A neighbor keeping his distance from the beast in the street. A husband, circling slowly. A wife catching the wind in her dress like a boat sail. On the move now down the street, feet no longer on the pavement. A husband in a dead run, chomping at her toenails. A neighbor watching the balloon in the sky as it scales up the clean air, quick bursts of fire torching the air within, until it reaches the cotton stretched clouds and looks nothing like a balloon at all.

Charles Lennox hates hates hates cilantro, the smell, the taste.

On the Soap Opera Planet

by Michael Steffen

You are stranded on a deserted island,
spitting distance from a large city,
and since your rescue will be prone
to many violent storms, you’re sure to be hit
by a swinging mast, after which
you will fall into a coma.
If you’re a bad person and you fall into a coma,
you’ll wake up a good person;
if you’re a good person and you fall into a coma,
you’ll wake up with amnesia.
Good people always go to jail.
Even though your cousin is an assistant DA,
he will still be allowed to prosecute
an embezzlement case against you.
You will immediately flee.
Although your abandoned truck will be found
idling near a reservoir, the interior
doused with blood of unknown origin,
it will be assumed you are dead.
Death is not permanent. In your “afterlife,”
when you underwhelm Broadway
with your lack of talent, you’ll be forced to return
as an unfaithful husband who learns
all birth control is ineffective.
Twelve hours after you cheat on your wife,
your mistress will experience nausea, vomiting.
If she desperately wants your baby,
she’ll quickly lose her ability to navigate stairs
(Despite her several miscarriages,
she’s never equated the word pregnant with
“Don’t go near the steps”).
After your marriage fails, you’ll be required
to throw your wedding ring off a terrace
into a moonlit sea.

Michael Steffen believes that everything is a goat.